Return to exploration... with a dash of research and collaboration

Three filled journals, two jobs, one master's degree, and four years later, I would like to resume contributions to this blog. Thankfully, my internet connection in Silicon Valley is better than it was in India. I have a vision for merging my drive for research with my love for creative writing, so we will see how this experiment goes... First, I'll introduce some of the projects I have been working on lately (populations and organizations anonymized of course). Reflections, ideas, and more failures and successes to follow...

Linguistic Equity for All? Comparing Educational Language Policies in Bolivia, Sweden, and the State of California from 1955 to 2013

July, 2015-- Abstract

With the proliferation of an international human rights dialogue, nations face increasing pressure to incorporate equity into state education policy. This study uses a comparative textual analysis of education policies from Bolivia, Sweden, and California (along with United States federal policies) to understand how these states frame equity for minority language populations though educational policy. The analysis is guided by world society theory, and specifically the notion that states strive to incorporate economic progress and social justice into their policy agendas in order to achieve equity. Qualitative analyses of education policy from these three countries reveal that Bolivia and Sweden simultaneously include both economic and justice perspectives on educational equity for minority language students, while California uses largely economic justification for English-only policies, and avoids rights-based language. These findings have important implications for countries seeking to build inclusive and equitable education systems for linguistically diverse populations.

Towards a Reading Rwanda: Exploring Sociocultural and Linguistic Influences on Literacy Development through a Literacy Intervention

May, 2015-- Abstract

A large body of literature suggests that sociocultural and linguistic factors influence the literacy development of primary school students. The influence of different sociocultural factors on literacy development presents numerous challenges for literacy program designers and implementers, as these programs should be appropriate for and responsive to local contexts. Our study seeks to evaluate the extent to which a literacy intervention by a large international non-governmental organization is able to enhance the early reading skills of primary school students in a northern district of Rwanda, given varying socioeconomic and linguistic characteristics. Using the organization's baseline and midline literacy assessment data, we find significant increases in the reading skills of students from baseline to midline. Although we find that these increases are not directly attributable to the intervention, our results indicate that different sociocultural and linguistic factors—which the intervention does address directly–significantly predict the reading skills of students. This suggests that consideration of local context and sociocultural factors should be essential components of literacy interventions.

Art-based Assessment for Environmental Learning: Pilot Study Report

August, 2015-- Executive Summary

As part of a research study at Stanford University designed to evaluate the impact of environmental education on student environmental behavior and engagement, this pilot of an art-based student assessment was intended to gauge how such an evaluation might be used within this area of research. The intended objective of an art-based assessment is to understand elements of student learning, and of the student nature experience as a whole, by evaluating students’ pre- and post-activity drawings using a rubric that is tailored to measure specific educational outcomes. Such a rubric is intended to qualitatively analyze the extent of students’ learning from the targeted activity, as well as students’ own perceived connection to nature.

A pilot of this assessment was conducted at an environmental education campus from July 29−July 31, 2015, during a coastal camping program. The assessment was piloted with two groups of children aged five to seven. One group of eight students was assessed before and after an hour of activity in a tide pool lab. The other group of six students was assessed mid-week, and at the end of the week, providing a longer period of time in between the pre and post assessments. The student data provide a foundation for developing this art-based assessment further, and suggest that art-based evaluation can provide a unique insight in to student environmental learning.

Finding ways to stay cool in this heat...

My Last Season in India

While we were in Karnataka at our Indicorps workshop I had forgotten the Rajasthani heat, which had been creeping upwards from 110 degrees Fahrenheit. When we came back, it was nearly 120 degrees during the day, and not far below 100 at night. These days the sun scorches anything it touches, carving cracks into the earth, my skin. I remember the winter here, wearing layers upon layers against the cold. As that cold began to fade, and the weather became pleasant, we were warned about the summer. But the subject of those warnings seemed so far away; May and June would never come—we had loads of time. Now the heat is here, we are in the middle of it. How did it come so fast? We are all begging for the rains to come, waiting for the relief they will bring. It must be only me who is at the same time hesitant, who is not sure she wants everything the rains will bring with them.

_________________________________

Yesterday afternoon, as I was walking with one of the older village women to the field to cut fodder for our buffalo, I received my first warning from the sky. I felt something small, delicate, and wet land on my forehead. “The rains are coming. Your year is almost over.” I looked up at clouds that looked too white to bear rain. It was only May 29^th—early yet for the monsoon. It was too hot for my brain to process the possibility of an early shower, so I continued cutting grass for Bhensie, and came back to the campus believing the single drop had been in my mind.

Shortly after, Harpreet and I headed to the kitchen to begin cooking dinner. I was mashing potatoes for parantha, when I heard a faint hush sound coming from the quiet evening outside. Harpreet and I looked at each other, too hopeful to say much of anything. Before we could process the notion of a weather miracle, the kitchen door blew open, and a heavy wind carried in a storm of dust—the dry gritty kind that covers everything after nearly eight months without a drop of rain. But the wind felt cooler, as if to say, “All right, here it is, the moment you’ve all been waiting for!” Then the water fell. The rain came in huge drops that pelted the dry earth, hitting her almost abusively before she drank in the first rain of the year. The storm wanted to be violent, dramatic, but everyone was too blissful in the unexpected rain to treat it with such reverence. The air was cool and tranquil that night, and everyone slept well. I was kept awake though, for a while, for the rain was a bittersweet rain. It was cooling and exciting, but it represented something else also: the nearing completion of my one year in India. When I arrived in India last August, the monsoon was just ending. I have been through all of the seasons here now; I have seen the cycle of every crop. All that is left is the monsoon to bring it full circle.

The following morning everything was as dry as before, with hardly any sign of the early storm. We are back to the oppressive heat; we will continue napping during the hottest part of the day when our brains cannot function. But it is only a matter of time before the real monsoons start. The first rain was a reminder that these last months must be my strongest. The rain will be my ending note here—the end of a year of discovery, of myriad failures sprinkled here and there with successes and acquired wisdom, of growth. My final season in India. So as the water begins to descend upon us, I will be pushing through to the finish line. I will be assessing the impact my work has had here, I will be treasuring the days I have left with my friends, and I will be memorizing the outline of every beautiful tree and rock of my Indian home. I want every piece of effort I leave behind to be meaningful in some capacity. I know I have learned more this year than I could ever hope to teach, but the thought of rain reminds me that I must be giving back. I must give so much that when I walk through the downpour onto my return flight in Ahmedabad, I will be completely empty—all of my energy left back in a small village in Rajasthan, soaking into the wet earth with the rain.

Create a Space to Smile

I am talking to Kalubhai, sitting on a bench outside of my small mud kitchen, and trying to get him to taste the daal I made. His eyes take the sunlight and split it into a thousand pieces, sparkling as he laughs a true, free, unrestrained laugh. I do not put enough chili, into anything I cook. According to Kalu, according to everyone in the village. My foreigner’s aversion to mouthfire spice is his reason for laughter now.

Two hands appear from behind Kalu and cover his eyes. They are jingly-jangly hands, adorned with bangles whose sparkle sounds replace Kalu’s sparkling eyes. Attached to the jingly-jangly hands is a smiling woman, clearly amused by her own subtle creation of mischief in our small corner of the world. Kalu’s hands shoot up, reading the bangles like the books he has taught himself to decipher. Glass or lacquer? How many? What size? Who is she? I know he will figure it out. The men here have become expert at recognizing women by the saris they wear, the bangles, the toe rings. How else will they know? The women’s faces are constantly veiled by their saris—a punishment hidden in the open, a daily toll paid, for being born a girl in a man’s society.

Here, today, on the campus of Hum Kisan Sangathan (Our Farmers’ Collective)—the organization that has become a part of me after eight months of working in Rajasthan—jingly-jangly Basantibai wears no veil. She smiles silently but wholly, for her voice will give away the mystery. A true, free, unrestrained smile. Kalu guesses her name, and pulls her hands off as she steps closer to me, revealing her identity. The silent smile becomes a giggle. They are not husband and wife, not family. They are friends, and here only can they express it. Away from the village’s low, sometimes suffocating ceiling of social norms, written by traditions with origins that no longer hold any significance, yet sneak into every crevice of life like an invisible, inescapable fog. It is as if the gate leading into the Sangathan’s campus (always alive and singing with the sounds of handlooms and school children), serves as a magical barrier to that fog. Here, the ceiling is lifted and everyone, once they walk though that gate, truly acts differently. Here, the soulsparkle can peek through eyes and bangles, unashamed.

From the rocky Rajasthani soil, from mere bricks and branches, a space has been created in this campus that not only protects freedom of expression, but encourages it. For me, this is the most amazing accomplishment achieved by Devendra, the founder of and unfaltering believer in Hum Kisan Sangathan. This campus has become a space with the power to completely free people. I work with the members of the handloom cooperative founded by the Sangathan, and everyday I see how their interactions with each other change in this space—especially those between men and women. There is more laughter, more silliness. Smiles sparkle all day long. This is true with the children who attend the Sangathan’s school as well. During the months leading up to their exams, nearly all of standards eight and ten spent day and night on this campus. Most of the time their noses were in books, breathing in every detail in preparation for their exams. When they had a free hour or two though, they would slip off their shoes and do cartwheels in the library, or sit in teenage circles and whisper things my twenty three-year-old ears were not allowed to hear. These things do not happen in the village, but they happen here.

How long did it take for these magical powers to settle themselves into the walls of the campus, into its trees and water? I imagine it was gradual, like vines creeping, or leaky faucets dripping. Thousands of years of traditions mold the Way of Life in the village, and the mold is hard to break. It must be softened first, and then remolded by a thousand willing hands before a new shape will take place, a slightly different, more tolerant and understanding Way of Life. Over the past thirty years, Devendra and the Sangathan have been the reshapers, and have sewn new Ways into the campus atmosphere. If these freeing powers are only growing stronger, might they break beyond the campus gate? Beyond our village itself? Small changes already have. Acceptance brings change brings possibility. Create a space for people to let their laughter bubble up from the bottom, for them to speak openly to whomever they want, for them to build their confidence, and amazing things will happen. Jingly-jangly, sparkly things that will change lives.

...but there are still pictures

Due to massive lack of internet, I have settled on journaling instead of blogging. However, if you are interested in Indian adventures, feel free to peruse my photos at https://picasaweb.google.com/racheltrip.

Friends and family, I miss you all more than words can say, and look forward to seeing you this September, when I head back.

Jungle Discovery and Latest Photos

My bedroom door slams open. “Didi, Didi, aajao! Didi, jaldiiiii!” (Sister come on! Hurry!) It slams shut again. Two pairs of feet race down the stairs from my room, skipping quite a few steps it sounds like.

I am in the middle of outlining the discussion topics for next week’s co-op meeting when this intriguing interruption occurs, and I don’t really want to stop what I am doing. But I am curious. Usually interruptions happen and the kids want to come into my room. They want to look through pictures or listen to music or play guitar. But this interruption was brief, and ended with the kids running back outside. I look out my window, and see everyone running to the fields. The kids, the co-op members, and even Sudhi and Devendra. I call out asking what happened. One of the kids turns back only long enough to yell “sher.” Lion. I grab my camera, and run to catch up.

Once I meet up with the crowd I get a few details. A lion was spotted in the jungle (which simply means “forest area” in Hindi) by some members of our village. It was recently dead when they found it. We walk through the low lying hill area until we get to the spot where the lion’s corpse was found. It is no longer there, I am told—they moved the body to Haripura, a nearby village. We make the short trek to Haripura and see a crowd of perhaps fifteen people that is rapidly growing. I cannot see the body yet, but I see women covering their faces with their saris, presumably because of the smell in this heat.

I do not know what to think. I have read from several sources that lions disappeared from this area in the 1930s, and so I am doubtful. But this is India, and anything is possible. I make my way close enough to see patches of sandy colored fur with black spots. Could it be an Indian cheetah? Those were once native to this area too. I get closer. I break into the circle. It is not a lion. It is not a cheetah. It is not even a member of the feline family. It is a huge hyena. When I think of hyenas I think of The Lion King and the hyena with Whoopi Goldberg’s voice who, although somewhat menacing, was pretty puny. This hyena was scary, even in its dead-as-a-doornail state.

So the rumor of a lion was a little inflated. I would bet that whoever found the body actually thought it was a lion, since most of the villagers do not know what a lion really looks like. Anyways, it made for a fun afternoon adventure despite the heat, which is back as if our brief two months of semi-winter had never happened.

Latest photos:

First step of the cloth making process-- making the tana, or warp.

Some girls from our group in the sarsu, or mustard, fields.

One of our students with the co-op's cloth, after helping me

photograph some cloth for marketing

School Chale Hum, "Let's go to school"

Beautiful video. Makes me think of all of our kids from Jhiri walking a mile through the farms to school every morning.

Stuck in New Delhi

A week later, I am still in New Delhi. I have become agile, and quite adept at jumping through bureaucratic hoops. I can even keep my cool while doing it. The good news: by tomorrow evening, I should have in my hand permission to stay in India another six months. I may even be granted the OCI status for which I have applied (Overseas Citizen of India), with which I will never need another visa for this country again. The bad news: by the time I get back to Jhiri, I will have missed a week at my project site. That is one week without seeing the kids, one week without chatting with my friends in the handloom co-op. Few of them understand what "visa issues" means, none of them will understand why I was gone a week when I said I would only be gone two days. It has been hard for me to be gone, and I can't wait to get back to my adopted Indian home.

That being said, my time in Delhi has provided me with the chance to reconnect with family (my grandmother's sister's son's family-- that would be my dad's cousin). I have had a wonderful time getting to know them, and pretty much have a new home in Delhi now.

I have completed a large grant proposal for the handloom co-op that I have been working on for some time, and will submit it tonight. If we get it, it will be huge news for us, and something the co-op has needed for a long time. Yesterday, I went to Delhi Haat, a popular market here, and saw several street plays performed by theater groups from local colleges about different social issues. I even got some of their contact info to give to Sumita, my co-fellow working with community theater in Jhiri. I attended a wonderful workshop on education and curriculum development at Manzil, an amazing non-profit for children here in Delhi. The workshop focused on structuring classes so that children get the most out of every minute, while learning in a fun and healthy way. I will be passing everything I gleaned on to Harpreet, my other co-fellow working on overhauling Manthan's (the school run by HKS) curriculum. Thanks to my mom and Kevin for reminding me to make the most out of a seemingly bad situation.

Also, for those of you interested in handlooms and textiles, it IS possible to start weaving your own cloth! Check out this nifty website for building a foot powered loom, and for other tips on sustainable living.

The Real Gypsies

Today I am in Delhi, figuring out how not to be deported from India when my visa expires in less than a month. On the bright side, I am reunited with my family whom I have not seen since I was nine. It has been a very happy reunion.

Two days ago, I was sitting in the fields a couple of kilometers behind HKS, watching about a dozen women from a nomadic Rajasthani group of Marwars steal water from someone's well. As the well was nearly dry, the water was seemingly inaccessible without a motor like those used by the farmers here to extract it, as it lay in a mere puddle 30 feet below. The women however, had devised a system of drawing out the deep water with a bucket. Three ropes were attached to one bucket, and three women stood at equidistant points around the well with their respective ropes. This positioning allowed them to manipulate the angle of the bucket, enabling them to scoop the water up from the puddle in the well and draw it upwards. It seemed to me like they had a lot of practice. They filled perhaps 40 gallons worth of metal pots this way, and then carried them on their heads back to their temporary camps past our farms.

Not knowing whose well was being raided, and not really caring, Sumita and I were simply trying to start up a conversation with these women. Not only was there a small language barrier (we speak Hindi, these nomadic peoples speak a dialect, Marwari), but the women were worried we were going to cause trouble for them with this particular well. They asked several times if this was our well, and if not, whose it was. We were finally able to convince them that we did not care about their stealing this water. Even after this, we conversed very little. Trying to lighten the tension a little, I picked up one of their empty metal pots and tried to carry it on my head. This coerced some laughter from the Marwari girls around my age, and sent the younger girls into hysterics. We were able to ask a few questions about their nomadic life--to us so strange and foreign-- and received surprisingly detailed answers: traveling around all the time is hard work, so no, they do not always like it despite the freedom everyone always assigns to it; they know a lot about the outside world from traveling so much, including that they can get a lot of money from tourists wanting to take their photos; they travel from Jaipur to Bhopal and back every year-- over one thousand kilometers in all; one was married at fifteen, and she hates her husband; some of them go to school, a few even leave the clan and go to college.

I had seen other groups of Marwars traveling before; there must be several large groups that take different routes at different times of the year. They travel in caravans as large as 400 people, and bring with them herds of sheep, goats, cattle, camels, and elephants. It is quite a sight, a caravan perhaps two kilometers long sharing the state highway with Hondas and Tata trucks as it weaves around Rajasthan. They look far stronger than the village people with whom I live. I suppose they eat better. The women are loaded down with jewelry since most of their accumulated wealth is carried with them.

When I studied in Spain a few years back, we learned about the Spanish gypsies who had come from India so long ago, and many of whom still live in southern Spain. I was amazed to see the same physical features-- I mean exactly the same-- in these nomads we were meeting in India as the gypsies I had seen in Spain. If anybody comes across some cool anthropological literature on the history of gypsy migration out of India, send it my way.

Anyways, really amazing experience. The Marwars stayed for two days in the Jhiri area, and then the third day were gone without a trace.

Girl Effect

Many of you may be familiar with this organization already, but I just wanted to post this video because I believe in the message it promotes. While I don't think that simply investing in girls will solve all the world's problems, I do believe it is a giant step towards tapping into all of the untapped human power, especially in rural areas. This is just coming from my experience. As I work with amazing women everyday, I just thought I would share with you all a little bit of what is on my mind 24/7 here... enjoy!

How India Makes Me Think

Anyone who has spent at least a few days in any Indian city will have stories about their chaotic experiences riding in cars/taxis/autos there. Just ask them. On several occasions, my arm has brushed a passing vehicle as it dangles out of my own overcrowded auto-rickshaw, which somehow narrowly avoids collisions left and right. There are few traffic lights (and those that exist are more like suggestions to motorists) and lanes are meaningless. Even driving on the proper side of the road is a bendable rule. Yet somehow I have yet to see an accident since I have been here. How can complicated intersections and streets crowded with cars function without traffic direction? The answer is simple: without lights and signs and lanes as guides, one must actually pay attention to the actions of other drivers around them, and react to those actions.

There are two important things I have learned during my three months in India. The first is that, as chaotic and disorderly as everything may seem compared to the United States, there is a system here—I just don't understand it yet. If I tried to drive a car, or even a bike, through the streets of Ahmedabad or Udaipur, I would certainly cause an accident because I don't understand the sideways glances or the honking patterns. I cannot blend into the system. Another example to demonstrate this point:

The organization for which I am working here in Rajasthan wanted to purchase a water buffalo so that we could have our own source of milk for the schoolchildren and few families that stay on this campus. Alone, I would have no idea where to purchase a water buffalo. I am not able to log onto eBay to see what is available; there are no stores, no formal market even, for the purchase of water buffalo. You have to understand the system. The system for purchasing a buffalo is rooted in knowing which families have how many, where calves have been born recently, and who may be a little short on cash at the moment. If you can navigate this web of information, you will arrive at the answer of where you should ask to buy a buffalo. In the end, we knew someone who knew someone who was selling their buffalo. The system here is not about internet connectivity, or credit cards, or traffic lights, it is about understanding people.

The second thing I have learned while in India is that it is near impossible to operate on autopilot here. In India, I have to think. How many people in the US roll up to a four way stop intersection and hardly glance side to side before continuing onward, knowing that the other cars will also have to stop at this intersection, allowing them to only halfheartedly check for other traffic? I know I have done it. Green lights tell us to go, and so we happily cruise through them without giving a passing thought to cars on the intersecting road. While this system works for us Americans, it enables us to drive without thinking very much. This is a parallel I can draw to entire hours or even days of my life in the states. Perhaps I am so used to the systems with which I grew up, that I hardly have to think about them anymore. Here, a thousand thoughts pass through my head every minute. I have to be constantly aware. When I offer chai to someone and they say no thank you, it does not mean they would not like any. I cannot simply take their answer at face value. I have to dig deeper and insist several times that they take chai before they, quite happily, agree to drink some. This is what people do when it comes to offering and receiving food, and I have come to understand this.

The systems are complicated here, and they are based in human relationships. I like this. In this small Rajasthani village I have practically no internet, no television, no radio. The sounds I hear, information I gather, and decisions I make all come from the people around me. There will be no autopilot this year, no traffic signs to guide me. This year I will become enmeshed in the community around me—and dependent on these people I see every day—like I never have before. And in this way, I will build relationships with people whose language I can hardly speak—yet. I think I could learn to love this system.

For the Girls

Two nights ago we had our first Jhiri girls' meeting.

Upon finding out that basic women's health topics are rarely discussed here, even between mothers and daughters, I decided to talk to Sumita about putting together meetings for the girls of Jhiri. We had a lengthy conversation about all of the issues that girls in this village face: marriage as young as 15, and babies at 18; lack of access to health information; zero support for the pursuit of higher education; little freedom to make decisions of their own. We quickly put plans for a girls' meeting into action, although it was not so easy. During the days the girls are in school, and as soon as school is over they go home to work in the fields. After dark, which falls around 6:30 now, the girls are not easily allowed out of the house. We were not sure if we could find an appropriate time for the meetings. After convincing parents that we would meet for only an hour, and that only girls would attend, and that Sumita and I would be present the whole time, we were able to schedule bimonthly meetings at 7:30 every other Saturday evening.

This past Saturday during school, we could tell that the girls were eager to meet. I was feeling really excited, and I was so honored that the parents trusted me and Sumita enough to let their girls into our care at night. (We have spent a lot of time with most of these girls' families because each of them is in school with us. I actually stayed with one of these families for six days about a month back. We are even pretty tight with the dads, which is really amazing in such a gender-segregated culture). HKS (our org.) started a small library in an empty space in the village, and so we decided to hold the meeting there. We were happy with the number of girls who came, and even happier with the way the meeting went. It was mostly just chit chat this time, but I could tell that these girls felt comfortable with us, and I look forward to discussing more in depth topics, from health to each girl's family life.

Sumita and I had a conversation amongst ourselves about the best way provide information and support to these girls while still respecting the local culture and its traditional gender roles. In the end, we decided that we will definitely be able to provide information about health, and even about topics like opportunities for higher education, but when it comes to touchy subjects like early marriage, we will do our best to just listen and be supportive in whatever way we can.

It is such an amazing and strong group of girls, and I have so much fun with them everyday. Hopefully these meetings will help strengthen my relationships with them. It seems like everyone, including me, stands to benefit a lot from this new addition to our schedules.

** I want to note that even though girls here face some of the issues I mentioned, they also are trusted with many important responsibilities and roles. The women share an amazing culture in their own sphere here—one that I have been lucky enough to be included in sometimes. No topic is ever completely one sided, so I just want to add this little disclaimer on the topic of gender issues.

PS: We just today sold Rs. 45,000 worth of cloth after I sent some letters and samples out last week! That's a pretty good amount by small hand loom co-op standards :)

Project update, Dushera Festival, and Water Buffalo

As of this week, I dove in head first to my project with the hand loom co-op. In fact, Sudhi Ji told me that from now until the end of the year I will be managing the logistics and marketing of the co-op on my own. After letting this sink in a little, I became extremely excited. With so much work ahead of me, I know I will have no problem finding motivation and renewing enthusiasm for my project. Now that I have spent the past few days sizing up the situation of the hand loom co-op (unorganized, little documentation if any, and only a word of mouth networking history), I have several goals for the next month or so: make a detailed spreadsheet of our inventory, create a few prospectus layouts that we can use to email to prospective clients, and put together a website for the hand loom co-op.

With the older school kids, I initiated a quilting project where we will use scraps from the hand loom co-op to create a quilt. We are only in the planning stages now, and each of the 8^th and 10^thgraders is working on an idea that they want to express in their quilt square (some of the ideas that have been tossed out are Hindu-Muslim tolerance, gender equality, and going to college to become a doctor for Jhiri village). There is a lot going on in school right now, so this will be one of those projects we do in spare time, but hopefully the end product will be inspiring and initiate a dialogue about some of these topics.

Last Sunday Harpreet and I traveled six hours to Kota to see the Dushera Mela. Dushera is a holiday in between Durga Puja and Diwali that celebrates one of India's most beloved stories from the Ramayana. The festival in Kota is one of the largest in India for this specific holiday. The city builds three large statues of Ravan and his brothers (who kidnapped Sita) and then “Ram” shoots an arrow into them, lighting them on fire, burning them to the ground (complete with a massive display of fireworks), and saving Sita. We had a great time exploring the old section of Kota, which boasts beautiful temples as well as a precolonial fort. We also snagged prime seats for watching the Dushera parade, and even made friends with a group of young boys who explained the entire Ramayana story to us. The number of people who attended the festival was astounding, even for a country of 1.2 billion people. We returned to Jhiri on Monday, but most of the kids didn't come back to school until Wednesday. All in all, it was a superb mini-vacation. Now it is back to work, hoping to finish up a lot before I head to Ahmedabad in November for our first workshop/debrief with Indicorps.

In other news, Devendra Ji knew of someone who knew someone who was selling a bhez, or water buffalo. We bought it, and its five-day-old calf, so now we have fresh delicious milk every morning. Their names are Kiran (sunrise) and Prakash (light). They are adorable, but not so bright as their names would lead you to believe. I like to water them, they like it too.

Our water buffalo

Some of my closest friends here

Dushera Mela in Kota

Our fields slowly changing colors

Sleeping on the roof, stars over our heads, waking up with the sun in the morning

Eating roasted mumphali, or peanuts-- the crop of the week

Seasons

Living in a city, you can tell that the seasons are changing in a number of ways. Of course there is the calendar, but there are more subtle changes as well. In the store windows, the clothing displays discreetly morph to showcase the coming season's new styles. Your favorite coffee shop changes the art on their front window from beach balls and ice cream to falling leaves. Leaves fall. School begins, or school lets out. Neighborhood pools open, they close.

Here in Jhiri, the season has changed. The temperature feels the same—it is still 96 degrees right now, in the shade, at 4pm—but the season has definitely changed. I realized this when my not-so-healthy knee began to hurt a little. At home this happens when it gets cold in the winter. Here it happened because the earth that I walk on everyday went from being nice and squishy from the monsoon rains to rock hard and cracked. I looked around and realized that the hills were yellow, like in Marin. The lush hariali, which translates literally to “greenery,” had disappeared, been devoured by all of the water buffalo it seemed and replaced by scratchy twigs. Come to think of it, after a month of super sweet roasted corn every day, I had not eaten a single ear in a week. It had all been harvested, consumed, and stored, along with the peanuts, the sesame, the chawli, and the other monsoon crops. In an Indian farming village, seasons are marked by the food you eat and the number of new mosquito bites you can count at the end of each day.

Along with the subsistence crops that have been harvested, everyone cut down the only cash crop here: soy beans. All the work has meant that many of our kids have been missing school the past week. On the bright side, families here will be paid soon. For their soy beans, they are paid once a year. On average families get 20,000 rupees. That is 465 dollars. Some do business on the side—carpentry, pottery, etc—and some sell small amounts of buffalo milk for extra cash, but most just spend their money very slowly until they are paid again. There will be another few weeks of hard work in the fields and then everyone will take a bit of break as the Indian version of Christmas fever, Diwali, approaches.

Cultural Note on Names

One of the students I work with here--Mangilal, who is 12 or so (no one knows their exact age here)--told me recently that his parents are changing his name to Chandrasekar. Their reason for changing their child's name to that of a famous Indian freedom fighter is that "mangi" means "one who asks for things, or wants things too much." They are afraid that such a name will give those grading the national 10th grade exam a bad first impression of their son from the start.

--Further background: 10th grade here is sort of like 12th grade in the states. After you finish 10th standard, you take a test that will determine not only whether or not you can advance to 11th and 12th standards, but also what you will be able to study: business, engineering and science, or the arts. So this test is a massive deal and is unfair in all sorts of ways that I will not get into here.--

So, Mangilal's parents changed his name. However, there are many other Mangilals in the surrounding villages, so we set out to find out why it is such a popular name if its connotations are supposedly bad. What we found out fascinated me. If someone's child falls ill as an infant, which happens frequently here, parents will change the infant's name to Mangi (for a girl) or Mangilal (for a boy) in express to the gods the extent to which they want to keep their child.

For the time being, we are calling Mangilal Mangilal, until someone tells us to do otherwise. Incidentally, he is an amazing kid, with a voice like an angel. We are all making him teach us this beautiful Hindi folk song about Radha and Krishna. Maybe I will sing it for you sometime.

Link to Picasa Photos

http://picasaweb.google.com/racheltrip/IndiaI?authkey=Gv1sRgCNGqj7DaubamOg&feat=directlink

A few photos to start...

Past due update pt. 2

Here is a breakdown of my typical day. 6am wake up, lie in bed for a while, yoga on the roof. 7am chai time with the 12 students who board at the hostel, Rambilas (our “cook” and general best friend, he's a couple years older than us, has the two cutest kids in the world, and is basically the man), and my two cofellows, Sumita and Harpreet. 8am school starts for the kids and I work with the handloom coop. 10am breakfast, then my classes start. I teach 1st, 4th, and 5th standards, and then do some projects with the kids in 8th and 10th. 1:30pm school ends, we eat porridge, and our afternoon begins. For the rest of the day, we engage in any number of activities, usually with the hostel kids. Here have been a few of my favorites:

1. Swimming in the kua. Our kua, or well, is 60 feet deep. Right now the water is about 25 feet down, making it the perfect swimming hole to jump into. The kids love this. I am trying to convince them to flip (yes Gabe, flip!) but no one will do it...yet. Most of the kids here, and all of the adults except for Rambilas, cannot swim. So there are about eight of us who participate in this activity almost daily (thermometer reads 98 right now, and this is considerably cooler weather than before).

2. Working in our garden. Sumita, Harpreet, and I knew from the start we wanted to get a garden going here. This may seem silly in a place surrounded by farms, but we wanted something small and manageable that we could use to teach the kids science and also plant whatever we wanted to eat. Lucky for us, there were remnants of an old garden, although it was in very bad shape. We have weeded it back to life, and dug irrigation trenches (watering the old fashioned way!). Currently we have eggplant and peppers growing, but will plant a variety of other vegetables tomorrow. The kids also love this.

3. Going into Jhiri village. Our organization's campus/office area is a 15 minute walk out of Jhiri. As most households are on the farm during the day, the best time for us to visit people is in the evening, and most evenings we are working. However, one of our favorite things to do is spend our evenings jumping from house to house in the village, so we make time for it. Every family is so welcoming and wants us to stay all night, but we always politely decline and move on to the house of the next child begging us to come. I love spending time with the families of the kids I teach. Usually we walk back to HKS (our org) around eight or so, in time for dinner, but filled to the brim with chai.

So that basically fills in the general gaps of the past 25 days here. I am going to try to start a Picassa web album, so I'll post the link when I get that started.

Swimming in our kua, or well; the surrounding landscape; our school (and a cool whale shaped cloud!)

Past due update pt. 1

And I now have internet! Sometimes... and it's very slow. But it is ok, because sitting at my computer is the last thing I want to do here. “Here” is a small village called Jhiri in south east Rajasthan. Originally, my project for the year was located in east India, but as always happens in this country, plans changed.

So on September 8th, after spending 25 days in Ahmedabad, I left the state of Gujarat and headed north via the sleeper car on Britain's most helpful legacy here, the train. Traveling with me were the two other fellows I will be working with for the rest of the year, both of whom I admire immensely. We disembarked in Kota, and caught a six hour bus ride to Jhiri. Before we left I looked up Jhiri on Google maps. I couldn't find it. If you were to search for Jhalawar, the district in which Jhiri is located, the actual town of Jhalawar would show up. This is the closest largish town to Jhiri, and is three hours away by bus. What all of this means is that the stars at night here are so brilliant they actually look like millions of little holes in the sky, the air is so clean that I can't breathe enough, and we are miles and miles from any built up civilization. It is bad for internet, but good for people.

The organization for which I am working has been operating for 20 years, and focuses on the farming community, which is everyone here. It is a small organization, with two leaders and a handful of employees—although everyone helps out. The organization is centered around the school, which is attended by 150 children in standards one through ten. In addition to the school, we run a textile cooperative which allows primarily women to earn extra income for their families, as well as to have a source of wealth themselves. We have four handlooms on our campus, and run the entire textile process ourselves, except for spinning the thread (so dye prep, dying, loom prep, looming, sewing, detailing). As many of these women are illiterate, my official reason for being here is to help them expand their market and strengthen their cooperative in general. Apart from the school and the textile cooperative, I find ways our organization is involved in the community here every day.

While the two other fellows and I live in the school hostel, we spent 6 days each in surrounding villages with different families, and will do this once every month. I learned a lot. Everyone here is involved in agriculture, and it is mostly subsistence farming, although many families also grow some soy as a cash crop. Everything we eat comes from the farms. Some highlights: daal that we helped pick, de-seed, and dry; fresh water buffalo milk every morning in our chai; buffalo yogurt; fresh grilled corn; and whole wheat rotis (tortilla like unleavened bread). There is not a lot of fruit, aside from some funky melon things, but every now and then one of the other fellows or I will make the trek to town for supplies and pick up apples and bananas. People live in brick and mud homes that house a joint family—usually brothers, their wives and children and their parents—and the water buffalo and oxen they own, usually five to eight. Many families also keep goats. The culture is very colorful: from women's saris to traditional Rajasthani house painting, there is color everywhere. Every day there is farm work to be done, and everyone pitches in, even grandma and gramps.

Sometimes I feel like I might as well be on another planet, and at other times I am reminded of how all humans—regardless of where we live—are all the same. Brothers and sisters fight here too, teenagers gossip, and moms want to keep feeding you until you explode. People are generally very happy. Money is excruciatingly tight, but most families buy very little and are astoundingly resourceful. I have already built many amazing relationships here and in many ways it already feels like home.